


x-folders and chill

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Edgeplay, Hand Jobs, M/M, Somewhat, akira is a dude who fidgets with things, bro jobs lmao, jobs no longer looks or sounds like a word, more than somewhat, turns out he's not very discriminative about what sort of things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: (Shit, let’s be real here. There is no such thing as personal space between the two of them.)





	x-folders and chill

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Being friends with Kurusu Akira requires a couple vigorous rounds of mental acrobatics on Ryuji’s behalf.

None of his friends have ever been so... _comfortable._

Sure, he used to get up to all sorts of shenanigans with his friends on the track team; they’d hang out at each others houses, they’d clasp wrists and punch shoulders and whip each other in the balls with wet towels in the locker rooms, all the bro-ing around a dude could handle.

That’s not like Akira, though.

Akira is a _leaner._

He’ll slouch into Ryuji’s side, rest an elbow on his shoulder, press his face into Ryuji’s back-- hell, he’s slumped straight into Ryuji’s lap without batting an eyelash during phantom thief meetings at Leblanc.

Ryuji lets him do it with barely any protest. Kurusu Akira is a typhoon in the shape of a teenage boy, and it’s best to just let him do what he wants and deal with the fallout afterwards.

(The fallout...well. Ryuji’s a teenage boy too, and not very discriminative with his tastes. Akira fits an obnoxiously large number of them to begin with. He doesn’t just take a lot of showers when he gets home just because he’s _sweaty,_ that’s for sure.)

It’s not just with Ryuji; Akira is a very tactile person, and once he’s absorbed someone into his weird friend field it means they’re fair game. He’ll sprawl across Ann’s lap as easy as Ryuji’s, sit with his back up against Makoto’s knees, hang across Yusuke’s shoulders to watch him paint, braid Futaba’s hair in awful lumpy ropes that send her into fits of laughter. He likes it when people touch him, too; he let Ryuji scrub fingers through his hair to help shake all the sand out after their trip to the beach, and he’s let Yusuke paint on him at _least_ twice.

With all of this as common knowledge, it still takes Ryuji a while to get used to the _cuddling._

It mostly happens when they’re hanging out alone. Akira will inch closer and closer, like Ryuji doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. They’ll brush shoulders, maybe Akira’s head will settle down into the crook of Ryuji’s neck, and before he knows it he’s got a lapful of Kurusu and an armload of suffering.

(He can’t even really call it cheating when they’re playing video games, either, because Akira always waits until it’s his own turn to situate himself hip-deep into Ryuji’s personal space.)

(Shit, let’s be real here. There _is_ no such thing as personal space between the two of them.)

He’s never really turned Akira down when it comes to a cuddle. As much as he hates to think about it, Ryuji’s been a little touch-starved for a lot longer than he wants to consider. After Kamoshitty and the rest of the track team, he’s been alone. Having a group like the Phantom Thieves, even after all these months, is still kinda new and kinda great.

They cluster together more after the Okumura incident. Ryuji spends half his nights on Akira’s shitty couch now, listening to Morgana snore and staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the rafters above. Sometimes Akira will get up and pace, and sometimes Ryuji gets up too, just to drag him back onto his mattress.

Sometimes they spend the night wound tight around each other. Ryuji finds himself the little spoon more often than not. It’s surprisingly comfortable to wake up with Akira’s warm, heavy weight draped over his back.

Either way, the position they end up in on a chilly, rainy October afternoon isn’t all that far from the ordinary. The attic isn’t drafty, but the air is clammy enough that neither of them so much as looked towards the couch when they came barreling up the stairs. Ryuji’d just moved the tv stand closer to the bed as Akira fluffs the blankets, and they both settle in readily enough. It doesn’t take long for them to reach optimal cuddle position™-- Akira propped up on his side with his arm flung over Ryuji’s waist, head tucked secure in the crook of Ryuji’s neck.

He’s wearing Ryuji’s hoodie. It’s a little oversized on him.

(Kinda cute, though.)

They’re watching X-Folders today-- the video store down the road just got the new season in. Say anything you want about Kurusu Akira, but you absolutely can’t say he’s got good taste in tv shows.

That’s fine. Ryuji’s got shit taste in them too.

Hell, half the time he’s not even watching.

See, the thing about Kurusu cuddle-time is that Akira gets...handsy.

He likes to fiddle with things in his downtime; Ryuji’s seen it for himself countless times. He spins his phone on a fingertip, flips pencils and yen coins back and forth between his knuckles, taps endless restless patterns on tables or knees or Ryuji. When they’re like this, it’s not unusual for him to grab a handful of Ryuji’s shirt to play with, his knuckles brushing the skin on Ryuji’s stomach.

He likes textures. He likes the weave on Ryuji’s shirts better than his own. Sometimes he’ll just slip his hand under Ryuji’s shirt and let his palm splay there, or worry his thumb back and forth across the crease of Ryuji’s hipbone.

Ryuji never minds, not really, though it does mean he has to spend a lot of the show doing as much mental math as he can to not pop a boner in his best friend’s bed.

Most days he can manage it, though when Akira asks him about what he thought of episode so-and-so he’s gotta bullshit something or other. Some days-- the days when Akira’s hand sneaks under fabric to touch skin, the days when the pads of his fingers linger along his waistband-- those days he excuses himself to the bathroom after the end of an episode to calm himself down.

Today’s one of those days.

Today they’re barely ten minutes in before Akira’s hand is fidgeting its way under his shirt; it feels like he’s got the hem wrapped up in his fist, smoothing it back and forth between his thumb and his forefinger.

He’s had a worried little furrow in his brow all week, so Ryuji’s not really inclined to complain; he’d do anything to get rid of Akira’s stress wrinkles. Laying back and letting him fuss with his clothes is nothing.

But because he’s been spending most of his nights this last week at Leblanc, it’s actually been a while since Ryuji had some, ah, “stress relief” himself. Every brush of Akira’s knuckles against his stomach send pleasant sparks up and down his spine.

When the credits pick up he stretches and groans and tries to sit up, but Akira’s arm wraps around him like a steel bar. “Don’t you dare let that chilly air in,” Akira grumbles.

“Fine, jeez!” He lays back down, letting Akira plaster himself right back up against his back. “You’re more like a cat than Mona is.”

“Mona’s got his own fur coat, I’ve just got a Ryuji space heater, and if you move I don’t even have _that._ ” His hand fists in Ryuji’s shirt, rucking it up a little more under the blanket. “You want me to freeze up here, Ryuji? That what you want?”

“Dude, no!”

“I get it-- this was all an elaborate scheme to depose me and take over my spot as leader of the Phantom Thieves, right?”

“Sh-shut up, the next episode’s starting!” Ryuji says, and Akira laughs low and dark behind him but thankfully falls quiet.

Things that do not help Ryuji’s burgeoning erection: Akira laughing low and dark behind him. Akira’s breath warm on his ear. Akira’s fingertips flirting with the button on his pants while Scullsy shows disbelief at yet another alien occurance on-screen. Akira’s thumbnail clicking down the line of his zipper, unheard little _tics_ that translate as bright snaps of pressure on-off-on-off and make him shudder.

There’s-- there’s no way he can’t feel him. There’s no way-- it’s impossible that he _doesn’t_ know what he’s doing, especially-- _shit,_ especially now that he’s this hard, hard enough that he can feel the zipper pressing hard on the underside of his dick. This is the point where he really should make an excuse, get up, go splash some cold water on himself, do everything he can to get rid of this, but--

But Akira sighs into his ear and makes some sort of comment about whatever the hell is on screen, and his fingers trace one by one from the base of his zipper up to the tip.

It’s like he doesn’t even _realize_ that Ryuji’s on fire, tremors running up and down his body even as he tries to keep as still as possible; it’s like he barely notices his fingers petting up and down the line of Ryuji’s dick through his way-too-tight pants, like he’s completely oblivious to the fact that his thumb is slicking circles round and round and _round and_ **_round_ ** and driving Ryuji out of his _fucking mind--_

“Ha, look, I can’t believe they missed that dude,” Akira chuckles, his breath ghosting along the line of Ryuji’s ear and his palm rubbing a slow, rough circle against his cock.

He can’t do it. There’s only so much shit a guy can put up with, and Ryuji’s reached his limit. He grits out Akira’s name from between his teeth; when Akira peeks over his shoulder Ryuji grabs his arm and pulls him all the way across his body to land in front of him.

It’s a surprise to Akira, for sure; his eyes are wide behind those stupid useless glasses he wears. “Ryuji, what the h--”

“Don’t,” Ryuji grunts. Akira’s hand is still between them, tangled somewhere between Ryuji’s shirt and his pants. “Dude. Do you-- do you even fuckin’-- realize--”

Now there’s an expression on his face, a sheepish glance down, maybe a hint of red in his cheeks. “Um. Sorry?”

“Sorry?” Ryuji parrots, raising his brows so high they feel like they’re gonna fall off his face. “Are you-- are you serious right now--”

“I,” Akira starts, and then presses his hand into Ryuji’s abs. “No. Not really. Not really sorry, either.” Even so, he won’t meet Ryuji’s eyes again. “You want me to--”

“Yes, holy shit,” Ryuji groans, leaning forward to bonk his forehead none-too-gently into Akira’s. “Eff yes, even, come on, you’ve been effin’ toyin’ with me for like three episodes, man, I’m _dying--_ ”

“Completely awful of me,” Akira says, and nudges his shoulder into Ryuji’s stomach until he flops onto his back in a huff. “Atrocious. Ghastly.”

 _“Bro,_ ” Ryuji whines, shoving the  heels of his hands into Akira’s shoulders in an unsubtle request. “Don’t make me beg, holy shit--”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Akira squirms between Ryuji’s legs, and then--

He keeps going down.

He keeps going _down,_ and his hand is warm, but his _mouth--_

Ryuji has to cram a handful of blanket into his mouth to stifle his yell, because Akira’s mouth is probably the closest he’s ever going to have to a religious experience and the cafe is _still open downstairs_.

When he looks down, all he can see is a lump under the blankets. He doesn’t have the courage to lift them up. Besides, it’s not like he _needs_ to see what’s happening-- he can feel it well enough.

Akira’s hands shove his shirt up to his ribs; Akira’s lips trail down his bare skin. Akira’s hands curl into the waistband of Ryuji’s pants, unzip them and tug them down just enough that he can get his underwear down too. And wherever his hands go, his mouth follows. It feels like mostly lips-- _oh_ , shit, there’s tongue too, swiping across the head in wide, flat strokes. Ryuji can’t help the noise that escapes him, pained and needy.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Shit, Akira, that feels-- _god,_ that feels so good--”

Akira makes an interested noise, mouth still occupied, and fumbles up to pat him on the stomach again. He gives in to the urge to rest a hand on top of the blankets, about where Akira’s head should be, and pets it once or twice. “Yeah,” he says, in agreement or approval or just to make a noise, a counterpoint to the show still playing on tv, to the soft wet sounds he can barely hear. He doesn’t know whether he wants to turn the tv up, or turn it off completely. “C-can you maybe--” he starts, and then nearly jackknifes upwards as Akira wraps his mouth around him and _sucks._ “Oh _shit,_ Akira, effin’ _hell.”_

He strokes his hand along the blanket-covered top of Akira’s head again, shuddering. He’s already wound so tense and tight, and Akira’s mouth is so, just _so much_. He can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop panting half-words and noises of approval, can’t stop his hand from pressing down just the slightest bit on Akira’s head the next time he bobs, can’t stop arching his hips and groaning when Akira pins him back down again.

If he listens, if he strains real hard, he thinks he can hear Akira making noises himself, little eager wordless things muffled by the fact that Ryuji’s _cock_ is in his _mouth_. It’s so hot; here under the blanket, here in this room, here in his skin. He can’t move; he can’t think. All he can do is stroke his hands across Akira’s head.

“God,” he murmurs, “this is-- Akira, _fuck_ \--” and then he chokes on his words because Akira’s just _moaned_ around his cock, and the feel of it combined with how hot and wet everything is sets him off then and there, has sparks shooting behind his eyes.

He barely registers that he’s all but jackknifed up, curling around Akira’s head, until he flops back down bonelessly, blissful and satiated.. Somehow, both of his hands have come up to press on Akira’s covered head. He jerks them back, mortified-- then groans when Akira makes a noise and shakes his head with Ryuji’s cock still in his mouth.

He leans back a moment later, and privately Ryuji mourns the loss, but Akira’s throwing the blanket over his head, his glasses fogged up, his face red, his chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

There’s a... smudge on his glasses. Somehow, _that’s_ what Ryuji fixates on, and _that’s_ what sends heat curling its way up and down his neck. He’s blushing like a chick, and his best friend just-- played with his dick until Ryuji called him out, and then went down on him like nobody’s business, and Ryuji can see the print of his dick through his pants, and there’s all sorts of little tremors running up his spine, and maybe it’s the afterglow talking but he really, really wants to touch Akira too.

So he scoots forward and drags the heel of his hand up Akira’s crotch, and Akira _yelps_ , and quivers, and suddenly slumps forward into Ryuji’s shoulder.

“...That’s it?” Ryuji asks, dumbfounded.

“Sh-shut up,” Akira says in a very small voice. Ryuji barks laughter and tugs him forward into a rough hug.

They get cleaned up (and isn’t that an awkward trip downstairs for Ryuji, still red-faced and ruffled; he avoids Boss’s eyes and escapes with a good double handful of toilet paper, which Akira takes gratefully). In what feels like no time at all they’re splayed back across Akira’s bed, with one glaring change-- Akira pushes Ryuji onto his back and then arranges himself just so across his torso, so Ryuji’s propped up on pillows and Akira’s propped up on Ryuji. It’s a new cuddle position, but Ryuji likes it even better than the usual; it’s warm and comfortable and makes it easy for him to play with Akira’s hair.

Akira doesn’t mind; he’s boneless and satiated too, and if he was any more cat-like he’d probably be purring. “Hey,” Ryuji says, warm and low.

“Mmm?”

“If you’ve been angling after sucking my dick this whole time, y’know, you could’ve just asked.”

Akira chuckles and stretches, popping both his shoulders and re-settling himself more comfortably, wriggling until Ryuji wraps both arms around his waist to make him still. “Should I apologize?” He doesn’t sound very apologetic.

“Nah,” Ryuji tells him, and after a moment leans down to smooch the crown of his head. “Next time, give me a heads-up?”

“Maybe,” Akira says, and he sounds way, way too smug for his own good, so Ryuji sneaks his hands under his shirt and tickles him until he shrieks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this isnt actually for kiss ryuji day lmao but it's as good a day as any to send it into the void


End file.
